


Of All the Gin Joints

by AbaddonsLittleWItch



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Bartender Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Captain Swan AU - Freeform, Cigarettes, F/M, Film Noir, Private Investigator Emma, very old timey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9122440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbaddonsLittleWItch/pseuds/AbaddonsLittleWItch
Summary: When Killian Jones decided to move stateside after the war, he expected some amount of trouble. He was tending bar in Manhattan, after all, while his brother was scrounging with low-lifes just to keep them safe from the rising criminal enterprises. Yes, Killian Jones had counted on a lot of things after getting settled as a civilian. He just hadn't counted on her.





	1. A New Lead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/gifts).



> This is all for Alana; it wouldn't exist without you, fam.

_Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine._

16 October 1945 - 10:15 pm

The night was crisp, the air scented with autumn and the wind sharp, pricking Emma’s skin as she walked down fifth avenue… again. She had been up and down the blocks between fifth and first almost ten times now, looking for a tiny alleyway that would supposedly take her to some dinky hole-in-the-wall bar called _Castle Harbour_. It was the first real lead that she had gotten in months so no amount of chilly wind or hard to find bars was going to stop her from following it. The mafia bastard she was chasing, a piece of work by the name of Liam Jones, was getting worse, his crimes only increasing in their disturbing nature. His most recent transgression, occurring less than one week ago, had been leaving a four day old body, sans it’s hands, decomposing on the docks of the Hudson, a block away from her office. He had wanted it to be found, had wanted her to find it. He was taunting her, dangling himself in front of her and then dancing away the moment she got close enough to catch him. It was some kind of sick game for him, one Emma was tired of playing.

When she had seen the body, bloated from river water, poisoning the air with it’s decomposing stench, she had promised herself it would be the last time. It would be the last time a person suspiciously disappeared only to show up again missing a body part; the last time a family would have to be told that their loved one wouldn’t be coming home; and for damn certain it would be the last time she would have to spend another sleepless night pouring over the case file, trying to find something, _anything_.

She had spent four nights restless, barely sleeping and having nightmares when she did, after this newest body had been found. She had nothing to go on, no trail, not even a connection between this newest victim and the mafia. At least the others had had dealings with the mafia in the past. The only reason she even knew this body was was a Jones ‘special’ was because he had left his signature calling card on it, a bloody anchor carved into the sternum. If she was being completely honest, she had been close to giving up hope of ever finding him… at least until the call had come in.

The fifth day after the body had been found, an anonymous call had been made to her office and a dry, gravelly voice had informed her that if she searched the blocks between first and fifth avenues she would find a small alleyway that would lead her to a bar owned by a Mr. Killian Jones, Liam’s younger brother. She had uncovered nothing about Liam having a brother in her research, but she would be damned if she didn’t follow this through.

Her perseverance finally started to pay off when, on her eleventh trip up the block between second and third, she happened to spy a tall dark figure seemingly vanish between two apartment buildings. She followed after them, as quickly and quietly as she could in a pair of stilettos, hand stashed in the pocket of her trench coat, wrapped around the .38 revolver she kept there. The figure lead her down an alley that stank of old garbage and piss, past a closed bakery, and around a corner on the left to….

Her mouth opened in a small ‘oh’ and she thought, _“Well, I’ll be damned. The son of a bitch is real.”_

The _Castle Harbour_ sat on the corner of two unnamed backstreets, small and unassuming. It would be an extremely easy building to simply pass by, unless you happened to be looking for it. The only thing marking it as a bar was a small sign that hung next to the door reading _Castle Harbour_ in peeling silver paint. The joint didn’t even look like it was open; the windows were dark, not a soul was in sight (other than the mystery man), and not a sound could be heard from anywhere around. But when the figure Emma had followed pulled open the front door, she could see a warm, yellow light pouring from inside, hear people talking and music playing softly. She smiled to herself and picked up the pace, finally feeling like she was finally about to make some headway with this damn case. After all, if the bar existed, that meant the anonymous caller hadn’t been lying, which in turn meant that the brother of Liam Jones wasn’t just another dead end.

She pulled open the door softly, trying to be as unassuming as possible, and was greeted with a rush of warmth, the relaxing sound of people having a good time, and the strong smell of booze. It was bigger than it looked outside, taking up the whole of the bottom floor of the building. A band was playing quiety on a small stage to her left, while a handful of people sat at tables scattered around the room, and at the center of it all was the packed bar. It was an enclosed square made of dark stained oak with space for the bartender in the middle. It was a handsome piece, certainly, but not nearly as handsome as the man standing within it.

Emma’s eyes trailed up his body, or what she could see of it, admiring every inch. He may have been the brother of a disturbed mafia hit man, but it didn’t stop him from making her mouth water. He was wearing an old but well cared for pair of black slacks, held up by a pair of black suspenders over his white button up shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows showing the thick lines of muscle in his forearms as he poured drinks; about three of his shirt buttons were left undone, putting his chest and the hair covering it on display. The fine muscles of his neck tensed and moved as he spoke to a customer, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed his own drink. His lips, soft and pink, were surrounded by a small goatee and moustache, and were currently wrapped around the rim of a glass as he allowed himself a small grin. She realized why a moment later, when her gaze traveled upwards over his nose to his eyes. He was staring right at her, watching her as she perused him. She felt a small blush paint her cheeks, but maintained eye contact as she took off her trench coat and took a seat at the bar, directly in front of him. She couldn’t have looked away even if she wanted to, really. His eyes were the deep blue of the sea, sparkling with mirth and warmth, holding her captive.

But Emma Swan had never been one to be put off a job by a pretty face, and she wasn’t about to start now.

“Killian Jones?”

He started at the clearly unexpected use of his name and glanced around wearily, his eyes losing their flirtatious gleam, his mouth losing it’s soft smirk. He came closer, leaning over the bar and whispering, “Yes. And who might you be?”

Emma’s smile was practically feral as she considered her reply, looking like the cat that had finally caught the damned canary. And what a handsome canary it was.

“Emma Swan, Private Investigator. I have some questions to ask you about your brother, Liam Jones.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Killian Jones had faced down an unprecedented number of terrifying things in his lifetime, most notably a Nazi bastard who’d been hell bent on putting a bullet in his brain, but nothing he had faced before had ever been quite so terrifying as the broad sitting across from him. She knew who Liam was, must’ve been the cop he kept saying was getting closer to catching him, and she had somehow learned about Killian. He had been expecting to see her for a while now, anticipating her barging in to arrest him and use him as bait. But she hadn’t. She had come to Killian to ask questions, to use him for information, and it meant that her knowledge about the brothers and their relationship was limited. It meant he could throw her off Liam’s scent, give him time to get away. Killian would never sell out his brother, not even if it would save his own skin, and especially not to some cop who thought she could get what she wanted by smiling coyly and playing the innocent dame. He very nearly snorted out loud, trying to imagine this broad as “innocent,” covering the moment by bending down to grab two glasses and a bottle of cheap scotch.

He imagined her act had worked on many a suspect before, and he would be lying if he said it hadn’t pulled him in at first, but he was a veteran. He’d had to learn quickly how to suss out when a lady was using her looks and charm to disarm him, lest he end up behind enemy lines for chasing after a skirt. He looked at her as he poured their drinks, deciding how he wanted to go about giving her a false sense of accomplishment. It was a dangerous game he was about to start playing, he knew that, but he couldn’t let her put his brother away. He was the only thing Killian had left in the world.

Emma’s red, painted lips curved into a tempting smile, secret and seductive, as he passed her a glass, the scotch golden and inviting. Her eyes were sparkling with triumph, having clearly seen the momentary panic he’d gone through when she’d said his brother’s name. She thought she had won this little tête-à-tête, and Killian was inclined to let her continue thinking so. Not all battles were won by shows of brute force; sometimes something a little more sly was necessary to fell one's opponent. He kept his eyes subdued, looking for all the world like a cornered dog, as he leaned closer, looking around to be sure no one would overhear.

“After I close up.”

He looked into her eyes, pleading, begging her to wait, trying to make her think that he was just a nervous bartender worried about being on the wrong side of the law thanks to his criminal brother. She bought into every moment of his act, in the same way he would have succumbed to hers if he hadn’t wised up to her plan.

She nodded slightly, grabbed her drink, and sauntered to a small corner booth to wait for him. It rankled him a bit that she was more beautiful than any broad had a right to be, her curves accentuated by her navy skirt and white blouse, legs made a mile long in heels thin and sharp enough to kill. And damn him, but her hair looked softer than silk, cascading in gentle waves over her shoulders and down her back. He forced his eyes away, sighing as he redirected himself to other customers. Gorgeous she may be, but a dame was still a dame, and no one could make him betray Liam.


	2. Liar, Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every ounce of thanks I possess to my muse and my beta, Alana (Inacessible Rail).
> 
> also, to address a comment that I've gotten from a few people: yes, Liam actually *is* a legitimate bad guy in this. apologies to Liam's fans!

18 October 1945 - 10:00pm

Central Park

 

Emma Swan was wet. And cold. And  _ furious _ .

She had been sitting for two long, lonely, hours on a bench in Central park while sheets of icy rain poured steadily over her, waiting for Liam Jones to appear and talk business with one of his associates. According to Killian, he was supposed to have been at the meeting place at eight o’clock, but the time had come and gone without so much as a rustle in the bushes or a footstep on the path. She waited another hour, giving Killian the benefit of the doubt, thinking maybe he had gotten the time wrong, but by ten she was forced to accept that she had been duped. That rat bastard had  _ lied _ to her, lied straight to her face, and the worst part was that she had known it was too good to be true. Her gut had told her that something was off about Jones’ eagerness to sell out his brother, but had she listened? No. Of course not. Because the notion that she might  _ actually _ have a chance to nab Liam Jones had been too sweet to resist.

_ “Absolute idiot. What happened to not being fooled by a pretty face, huh? You’re better than that, Swan.”  _ She berated herself as she walked home, stewing over the particulars of their meeting, reflecting on every minor detail of their interaction to find where the hell she had gone wrong.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

_ She had waited for three hours in that little corner booth while he danced and charmed behind the bar, serving up drinks and chatting with customers. It was easy to see why her anonymous caller had said he might be a good lead. People couldn’t seem to help but open up to him. His smile was inviting, warm, bright and irresistible, his eyes sparkled enticingly when he so much as glanced in your direction. They pulled you in, hypnotized you, made you believe you could tell him every secret you’d ever had. Or, at least, she figured they did. So far he hadn’t actually tried to use his particular brand of charm on her. He had looked her way several times, but his eyes had clouded over and his smile had fallen slightly every time he did. She told herself it didn’t bother her. She wasn’t there to meet a man, she was there to catch a lowlife who stole and murdered for a living. Let him flirt and learn meaningless, drunk secrets from his wealthy, well-dressed clientele, what did she care? She managed to tear her eyes away as the time passed, focusing instead on the slosh of scotch in her glass as she twirled it around, on the burn of it sliding down her throat when she deigned to take a drink. The warmth it left in it’s wake cleared her mind, helped her rehearse what she wanted to ask as well as take a guess at the wool he might try to pull over her eyes. _

_ The club stayed full until almost eleven. The lingering excitement of the Allies’ victory over the Axis permeated nearly every bar, restaurant, and club in the states. Castle Harbour was no different, and while it was certainly wonderful for the returning soldiers and their dames, it was a pain in the ass for Emma. Finally, right when she thought she was going to have to pull out her pistol and start threatening people to leave, the crowd began to thin. The band stopped playing and started packing up their instruments, men grabbed their coats, women grabbed men’s arms, and slowly, but surely, the place emptied, leaving only her and Jones behind. She stayed in her seat, letting him close up, using the brief time to watch him closely. He wiped down the tables and bar, the stretch of his long torso reaching across them feeling slightly unnecessary. The movement put his (delightfully) round and perky bottom on full display, which, given his smirk when he caught Emma looking, had clearly been his intention. But it wasn’t until he began hefting the chairs onto the tables that she noted his manipulation tactics were far less subtle than he intended. Regardless of her awareness, though, she couldn’t hold back the blush that rose to her cheeks as she watched his shirt tighten over his biceps, the muscles threatening to burst the seams. The flexing of the tendons in his forearms as he worked only worsened matters further, and she began to lose focus of why she was there to begin with. Her mind decided that it had had quite enough of thinking about murder and dismemberment and the mafia, instead conjuring up the image of her slender legs wrapping around his hips as Killian lifted her like she weighed nothing and sat her on the bar, nimble hands holding her steady as he leaned in, smelling like scotch and spicy cologne - _

_ A glass half full of amber liquid slid across her field of vision and she barely caught it before it could crash to the floor. Jones himself slid into the booth next to her, bringing his arm to rest behind her shoulders, his own drink residing in his other hand. Emma scooted an entire foot away from him, glaring pointedly at his arm as she did. He was looking at her with an infuriatingly knowing smile, eyebrows raised suggestively, and the urge to smash her fresh glass against his head rose steadily. She quashed it by taking a few deep breaths through her nose, reminding herself that he was merely playing a game, one she had no intention of losing. _

_ “Alight then, sweetheart, I’m ready to answer your questions.” _

_ Her pistol thunked loudly on the table in front of them at his remark, drawing his gaze immediately _

_ “I’m not your ‘sweetheart.’” _

_ He made no comment, simply kept his eyes on the pistol as she pulled a notebook and pen out from her other pocket and set them up on the table. _

_ Not being one to waste time or mince words, Emma dove right in, asking her first question with no preamble. _

_ "So, Liam Jones  _ **_is_ ** _ your brother, correct?” Killian nodded tersely, but his focus seemed to be wavering, despite his previous earnestness. _

_ “Do you know where—” _

_ “What about ‘doll’?” _

_ She turned slowly towards him, eyes pinched and severe, irritated by being interrupted with such an absurd question. _

_ “Excuse me?” _

_ “What. About. ‘Doll?’” He spoke slower, as though he thought she’d had difficulty understanding him the first time. Her brow furrowed and her lips settled into a snarl. He ignored her, looking up at the ceiling instead, and taking a long drink while he contemplated something. When he finished his drink he turned back to her, eyes glittering darkly with mischief. _

_ “What about ‘baby doll’? ‘Sugar’? ‘Darling’? ‘Love’?” _

_ The thought of hitting him with the butt of her pistol was feeling significantly less dramatic the longer he smiled at her. _

_ “You may call me Detective Swan.” _

_ His smile grew wider, his teeth white and wolf-like in their sharpness. _

_ “Alright. Swan.” _

_ She was going to kill him. After she’d caught his damn brother, she was going to come back here and poach him like the dog he was. _

_ “Enough games! Just answer the question, Jones!” _

_ He bowed his head and waved his hand towards her, as if to imply that  _ **_she_ ** _ was the one wasting their time! _

_ “Do you know where your brother is?” _

_ “No.” _

_ “Do you come into contact with him often?” _

_ “Sometimes.” _

_ “Do you know what he’s been up to?” _

_ “Yes.” His voice grew uneasy with every question answered, all previous teasing apparently forgotten. _

_ “Can you help me find him?” _

_ He shifted next to her, looking supremely uncomfortable, eyes cast downwards, hand gripping his glass so hard she thought it might shatter. _

_ “Look I don’t—I don’t know exactly what Liam’s been up to, alright? But I  _ **_do_ ** _ know my brother. He’s a good man. If he’s doing stuff that isn’t precisely… legal, then it’s for a good reason.” He looked up at her from beneath his eyelashes, a refreshing glimpse of sincerity in his look. Emma sighed. So much for a new lead. This guy wouldn’t be any help at all, not if he thought his brother was slaughtering people for “a good reason.” She gathered up her pen and notebook silently, stuffed her pistol back into her pocket and slid out of the booth. Putting her trench coat back on, she made to walk to past him, already formulating a new plan to catch Liam sans his brother, but Killian’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. She stared down at him, hard, a muscle ticking in her jaw. _

_ The warning in her voice was unmistakable as she evenly intoned, “Let go of me. Now.” _

_ She stiffened as he ignored her, again, and stood, pulling her closer. The hard lines of his lean muscles screamed danger as he pressed against her, invading her space for the second time that night. He was tense now, though, rather than teasing, and she could feel his strength molded against her, making her mouth run dry. He was lithe, wiry, a hidden trap waiting to spring and as livid as she was at being manhandled by him (repeatedly), she found herself wanting him to maintain his hold. No man before had dared grab her the way he did, would likely have ended up flat on his ass for his trouble. But not Killian. He wasn’t afraid of her, wasn’t afraid to push her, and there was something strangely attractive about it, something that made her desire him on a primal level. _

_ His stubble brushed her cheek, the contact sending heat scorching through her, and his breath tickled against her ear as he leaned down to whisper, “Listen. Sometimes… some of Liam’s… ‘associates,’ we’ll say, come in here. And sometimes if they get enough liquor in them they open their mouths more than they should. And they may have let slip a couple nights ago that there’s some kind of big drop going down in Central Park two days from now, at eight. Liam might, and listen to me carefully darling,  _ **_might_ ** _ , be there. Now, that’s all I know, okay? I swear. Have mercy, lass.” _

_ He stepped back out of her space, the sudden absence of his warmth making her shiver. He looked sincere. His eyes were unguarded and nervous, his mouth drawn in a tight frown. But something didn’t seem right. For a guy who seemed so convinced his brother was a good man, he was pretty eager to give him up. But Emma didn’t have a whole lot of other options. She would have to follow this lead wherever it took her. She wrenched her arm from Killian’s grasp, deliberately ignored the heat flooding her cheeks, nodded her acknowledgement, and left without another word. _

 

\-------------------------------

 

The more she replayed that moment in her head, the more livid Emma became, but not with herself, no. With Jones. Both of them. Without entirely realizing where she was headed, she made her way in the opposite direction of her home and instead started walking back towards 3rd. Towards  _ Castle Harbour.  _ Towards Killian. And the longer she pictured Killian’s smug face, the more her pace quickened until she found herself in an all-out run. Her heels clacked loudly against the wet pavement, threatening to snap from the force of her legs pounding against the ground. Icy shards of rain pelted her skin, freezing her to the bone, but she didn’t feel it. All she felt was sheer anger sparking deep in her stomach, simmering as she ran until it caught fire and blazed through her, spurring her on. She was so focused on her rage at both Jones brothers that she failed to notice the shadow at her back, following quietly and steadily behind her.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

18 October 1945 - 10:45pm

Castle Harbour

 

The rain lashed against the windows of  _ Castle Harbour _ as Killian puttered around cleaning and restocking the bar. Neither task was especially necessary at the moment, the place was already cleaner than his own home, but it gave him something to do, something to keep his mind off the detective. He couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty about sending her on a wild goose chase, especially since the rain started. Not guilty enough to regret doing it, but he still had  _ some _ semblance of honor thrumming in his veins. He’d lie to her a hundred times if it meant there was a possibility she would leave him and his brother alone.

_ “Do you know what he’s been up to?” _

The question had been ringing in his head since she’d asked it, buzzing like the most annoying and resilient of flies. Of course he knew. He’d known what his brother had been doing since the moment he arrived state side. There hadn’t been a lot of job opportunities for an honorably discharged ex-pat with bad limp, but Liam had still managed to find a few guys who needed his particular set of skills and would pay a pretty penny for them. Working for those lowlifes had given him the resources he’d needed in order set things up so that Killian wouldn’t have to struggle when he finally came over. He’d looked out for Killian, again, the same way he always had. The same way he always would. And if Killian had to turn a blind eye to some of the less savory things his brother did in the service of bettering their lives, well… so be it. He owed his entire life to Liam. A little loyalty and love wasn’t too much to give in return.

But somehow that excuse wasn’t fully assuaging his guilt the way it usually did. Somehow he still felt his conscience twitching, hard, with every gust of wind that battered the door. So maybe he hadn’t known that it was going to storm when he lied to Emma, but she _had_ been out there because of him. As if the storm itself were agitated by the tempestuousness of his thoughts, the wind slammed another staccato beat against the door of the bar. It drummed relentlessly, increasing in strength and speed, until it finally struck Killian that the pounding wasn’t from the wind at all. It was from a fist. And he had exactly one guess as to whom it might belong.

He closed his eyes, praying that he was wrong, and shouted, “We’re closed!”

“ **_JONES!_ ** ” Her scream was slightly muffled by the door and the wind but no less strong, and no less livid. If he hadn’t known better, Killian might have even said that she had summoned the damn storm herself. Her incessant pounding stopped for a moment and he briefly hoped that perhaps she given up and left. Until the lock on the door jolted from what could only have been described as a tremendous kick. He cursed softly, jumped over the bar, and ran to the door, unlocking and yanking it open in enough time to see her stocking clad foot raised in the air, poised to kick it again.

“ _ Quit _ trying to break my bloody door down,” his voice dwindled to a whisper as he took in the full sight of her. 

She looked absolutely livid. Wind whipped around her, blowing her hair into a tangled mess and creating knots that stuck to her face. Her soaked clothes had clearly been ruined; dripping with water, clinging to her curves in ways that were nearly indecent, though Killian had to admit that he didn’t mind the look. His eyes continued their downward trend to find that her stockings were ripped nearly to shreds. With her shoes nowhere in sight he was forced to assume that she had run to him barefoot. But the most terrifying part of her standing at his doorstep looking like a starving beast wasn’t in the mess of her outfit or the insanity of her hair. It was in her eyes. They blazed with fury, the fire in them threatening to burn everything around her, and, worst of all, they had directed their ire solely towards  _ him _ . He’d seen German soldiers look less likely to commit murder.

He remained entranced by her visage as she stalked past him, her eyes only turning away once she had moved fully into the bar. He stood there on the doorstep, rendered motionless, praying she wouldn’t actually be able to kill him with a look, until the wet, firm slap of her soaked trenchcoat hitting his stunned face reoriented him. Slamming the door shut against the wind and rain left in her wake, his front now thoroughly soaked, he turned to find her perfectly at home behind the bar, helping herself to a bottle of his finest whiskey. There was still an air of wildness about her, despite the booze, but the sound of it sloshing to and fro within the glass seemed to be having a calming effect. She tipped her head back and drank it all, slamming the glass down when she was done. The sound made him flinch, and while she helped herself to a second drink, he couldn’t help but take a moment to mourn the loss of his finest stock. 

Slipping behind her, he plucked the now empty bottle and half empty glass from her hands, finishing it himself before deliberately setting it down light as a feather on the bar.

“Please stop taking your fury out on my bar, Miss Swan.”

Her eyes snapped to his and narrowed, the fire still burning as bright as ever in her glare.

“You lied to me, Jones.” Her words were surprisingly strong and clear for someone who had just drank nearly four ounces of whiskey straight. Killian brought his hand up to rub at the back of his neck, a subconscious indicator of nervousness that he’d never quite grown out of, much to his brother’s consternation, as his eyes slid away from her face.

“Ah.” was all he could say as he tried to think of an excuse, or maybe an explanation. Not a single one was forthcoming from his maddeningly unhelpful mind, so he went with the next best option: false bravado. After all, it had served him well on the battlefield and what was this if not a battle of wits?

He changed his demeanor as subtly as possible, and ignored her impatiently tapping foot, electing instead to turn his back and grab the empty box he had been restocking the bar from. Without even an inkling of remorse he carried the box towards the storage room in the back, speaking over his shoulder as he went.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

The sound of her bare feet stomping across the floor followed after him, chasing him into the storage room. He continued to ignore her as he went about his business, breaking down the box in his hands and kneeling down by the ones on the ground, searching for the next one he needed. As unlikely as it seemed, he could feel her anger rising as he did so, and he smirked to himself. He should have felt guiltier with her in the bar, but now that she was next to him all he felt was amusement. She was easy to get a rise out of, easy to tease and flirt with, and he was enjoying their banter. And now that he wasn’t at risk of being eaten by her, he noticed that she looked cute as a button in her rage, rather astonishingly like some kind of angry, blonde puppy.

“Damn it, Jones, are you even going to look at me?!”

He raised his head up from where it had been buried between the boxes, searching for the gin, his brow arching into his hairline as he stared blankly at her.

“Well, I’m looking, darling. What is it I’m supposed to be seeing?”

A frustrated scream tore from her throat as she threw her hands in the air.

“You know what your brother has been doing, I  _ know _ you do! Or you know some of it at the very least! Why are you protecting him?!” He sighed at the accusations, eyes falling. Of course she had to go and ruin his fun. He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up, head hanging dejectedly as she continued. “He’s an awful person, involved in at least a hundred different crimes,” her hand came up and she ticked away on her fingers as she listed Liam’s misdeeds. “Money laundering, drug smuggling, arms dealing, prostitution, a dozen or more grisly murd—”

“ _ Because _ ,” Killian’s voice rose over hers, cutting off her tirade, “he is still my family. My only family.”

Emma stopped at his confession and a new look crossed her expression. For the first time since their initial meeting she wasn’t looking at him with anger, exasperation, or hunger. She was looking at him with something bordering suspiciously on pity. Her hand came down from where it had been counting to smooth her ruined skirt. 

“I’m sorry.”

Killian took a deep breath through his nose and put his hands on hips. 

“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“ _ But _ ... he’s still a criminal. A dangerous one.”

Killian’s thin patience snapped. He stepped around the boxes and grabbed Emma’s arm, leading her swiftly out of the storage room and to the front door.

“I believe it’s time for you go, Miss Swan.” He smiled tightly at her. “As you can plainly see, my bar is not open at the moment, despite your decision to barge in regardless, and while you may think I owe it to you to betray my brother, the fact is, I do not. You haven’t the first idea of who Liam is or what he’s had to do to keep me, to keep  _ us _ , alive.” His voice lowered to a dangerous whisper as he spoke, his own anger beginning to cloud his better judgment.

“So don’t come waltzing in here, pretending to know my life,” he scooped up her sopping trench coat and plopped it rudely into her arms.

Her mouth had fallen slightly agape at his seemingly genuine confession, but she recovered quickly enough. She wrenched the door open, prepared to step back out into the cold and wet, but before she fully crossed the threshold, she paused to give him a careful look.

“Fine. I’ll leave. For now. But I  _ will _ come back.” She pointed a finger at him, jabbing it into his chest as she warned, “Don’t think I’ll be taking my eyes off you for a second, Jones.”

His smile shifted from cold and hard to genuine.

“Darling, I would despair if you did.”

He watched as she spun around and stalked off into the dark, keeping his eyes on her until he could no longer see her outline through the rain, before shutting his door softly. He thunked his head against it, groaning as he realized that he had a large problem on his hands: he wanted her to return. She was the PI investigating his brother, who suspected him of lying, who was blatantly using him…and he couldn’t wait to see her again.


	3. Less Savory Things

 

18 October 1945 - 11:30 pm  
_ Castle Harbour _

 

The heightened sense of tension from his encounter with Emma was finally, blessedly, beginning to lift from Killian's shoulders as he set about cleaning the bar. It was a relaxing practice for him; it enabled him to shut his mind off momentarily, which was something he greatly needed after his little confrontation. But past experience had him suspecting that the brief moment of solace wouldn’t last long, and his suspicion was confirmed when the door to his bar was violently slammed open with a ferocious kick.

“Oh, come on!” Killian gestured forlornly at his poor abused door as one of Liam’s associates, a big brute called Fred, stomped in, sounding like a lame horse as his massive boots clomped across the floor. Killian glared at him as he plodded in, rain dripping off his coat, leaving little puddles on the recently mopped floor. His beady little eyes shifted around the room as he came to a stop at the bar, the smell of old cigars and body odor wafting off him in a cloud, making Killian wrinkle his nose. He was obviously looking for something… or, more likely, someone, and when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to speak first, Killian broke the silence himself. He sounded bored and impatient, his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head as addressed the brutish man.

“Can I help you? Contrary to everyone’s apparent belief, this bar is not, in fact, open tonight.”

Fred's watery eyes swung around to focus on Killian, though he wasn’t sure how. The man’s greasy, lanky hair hung around his face in disheveled clumps, almost certainly blocking his vision. He looked astonishingly like some kind of deep sea creature that had crawled out of the depths to do his brother’s bidding, and when he spoke his voice was as distressed and disturbing as the rest of him. It was gravelly and deep, sounding a bit like he was trying to talk around a throat full of jagged rocks.

“Where’s the detective?”

Killian started at the question, a million scenarios and questions of his own zinging through his mind. He managed to keep his features from betraying any of his genuine surprise, though he suspected Fred wouldn’t have noticed regardless. There was only one reason this monster would be asking about Emma: Liam had sent him. Which meant Liam knew about her, and worse, knew that she had visited the bar. But Killian wasn’t about to discuss that with one of his brother’s mindless drones. No, the best course of action now would be to visit Liam himself. Killian had been planning on going already, but now he had more questions and no small amount of concerns regarding the blonde Fury that had barreled into his life. So Killian did what he did best when confronted with a potentially volatile situation: he feigned ignorance.

“What, uh, what detective?”

Fred regarded Killian with suspicion, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed.

“I saw her come in here. I heard a racket!”

Killian turned away, trying to think of something, anything, that might convince this man that Emma hadn’t been here. He went with the first thing that popped into his head.

“Could you describe the racket?”

Fred took another step towards him, the air around him bristling with malice, forcing Killian to step back, a small margin of fear flashing through him. Liam’s drones may be mindless minions, but that didn’t keep them from being strong enough to crack open a skull like a rotted watermelon.

“Li- listen...there hasn’t been anyone but me in here all night, mate. If a detective had come in, I promise I would know. But there hasn’t been anyone tonight, detective or otherwise. Please, go back to Liam, tell him I’ll be at the old place in half an hour.”

Fred nodded and, with no other course available to him, turned and stomped back out the way he had come, leaving the door hanging shakily on its abused hinges.

  
  


*******

  
  


19 October 1945 - 12:00am  
_ 8 10th Street, Manhattan _

 

Situated approximately five blocks south of  _ Castle Harbour  _ sat the apartment that Liam had initially procured for himself and Killian when he first came to the states. He still owned it, still paid rent on it, but he didn’t live there anymore, not since Killian’s bar had picked up and he’d managed to get a place of his own. They only used it when they needed to meet and discuss Liam’s business, rather than run the risk of meeting at either of their homes or the bar. It was safer that way, made it more difficult for the average police to track them, if not for special PIs.

Trudging down the street in the middle of the night towards his first “home” stateside (if you could call that dank, rat infested building a home) filled Killian with a special kind of melancholy. It made his shoulders droop with guilt at second guessing Liam after all this time, made his boots scuff against the street as they dragged slowly onwards, bringing him closer to a conversation he desperately didn’t want to have. Why would Liam have sent one of his goons after Emma if not to harm her? Why was there suddenly an itch crawling under his skin to protect her? And why was Emma so damned determined to find him? This wasn’t the first time he had questioned some of Liam’s behavior, so what was the difference now? Was he really this worked up over one dame? The entire situation was deeply absurd, and Killian was determined to keep it from spiraling any further out of control. He’d talk to Liam, convince him to tone down his behavior, and then he’d talk to Emma, explain certain... things to her, show her that Liam really was a good man. Deep,  _ deep _ , down.

The bleak questions and their fragile answers circled in his head, an endless loop of increasing misery, battering at his tender conscience, distracting him so thoroughly that he actually managed to walk an entire block past the apartment before he realized his mistake and lurched to a stop. Grumbling under his breath about stupid brothers and stupider broads, he circled back around at a faster pace, finally coming to a stop in front of a dilapidated, four story brick building. It’s cracked, pitted bricks were covered with peeling red paint, while it’s broken and boarded up windows were surrounded by faded gilt frames. The mish mash of decay encroaching on its previous beauty gave it an air of something lovely that had been violently corrupted, flattening Killian’s mood until it had been fully ground into the dirt.

He stared at the building, his eyes slowly crossing until he was no longer seeing the damaged facade, but rather a memory. He lit a cigarette, the first soft puff running a small amount of false calm breeze through him. The chilled air of the evening washed over him, making him shiver, as he thought back, calling up memories of better times in terrible places. They hadn’t had much when they started out, but one thing they did have was each other. On the bitter nights of their first year, when their fingers were numb and their heating system had finally surrendered to a losing battle with the cold, they had stayed up, shivering under thin blankets and playing cards until dawn broke. Liam would then make lukewarm tea for breakfast, the pipes spitting and sputtering as they tried to heat the frozen water, and go off to his “job,” a warm smile making his eyes sparkle and crinkle as he went out the door. After Liam was gone, Killian would get dressed in the nicest slacks and button up he could find, throw on his pea coat, and start wandering around, searching for a job of his own. He had appreciated what Liam had done for them, the fact that he was able to bring home some kind of money, but he hadn’t wanted to be involved in it himself.

Instead, his wandering feet had brought him to an run down bar where he had sat for several days before the even older owner had finally spoken to him. “I’m old, son,” he had said, “And I could use some help around here. Could use a strapping young man like yourself. Can’t pay ya much, but it’s somethin’, and these days we all need a little somethin’.” Killian had accepted without a second thought, and thereafter found himself spending his days learning about different types of booze and how to mix them, in between learning how to run the business. When the old man passed away four months later, he left the bar to Killian, who gutted the place and made it his own. Another four months after that Killian had saved enough to rent the place above the bar and leave the frigid one bedroom apartment. And if he really thought about it, if he had to pinpoint a moment when his faith in Liam started becoming more of a chore as he purposefully closed his eyes to dangerous deeds and less savory things, he would choose that moment. The moment when he left Liam on his own.

The sudden sound of a cat crying in the night snapped Killian out of his reverie and he noticed that a light had flickered on in a window on the fourth floor, the orange glow making spiky shadows dance across his feet. It was their signal. It meant Liam had arrived and was waiting and Killian was out of time. He sighed and snuffed out his cigarette, trudging helplessly towards the door. A chill ran down his spine as he grasped the handle, the squeaking protest of its rusted hinges acting as an omen, warning him to turn around, to tell Liam later that something had come up and he couldn’t make their meeting. He shook his head, ignoring the tingling feeling of distrust flooding through him, and walked through the door anyways. It was his brother waiting for him, not a common criminal, and if he couldn’t trust his brother then he couldn’t trust anyone.

 

*******

  
  


19 October 1945 - 12:00 am  
_ Emma’s Office _

 

The floor of Emma’s office was covered in a myriad of reports and photos from every crime scene attributed to Liam Jones. Empty glasses and coffee mugs littered her desk, while her pens, having been knocked over, lay scattered around the room.. The woman herself lay on the floor in the middle of it all, hands folded together across her stomach, mouth pulled down in a tight frown. How she had ended up there, staring blankly at the ceiling as shadows from passing cars painted it in shades of orange and black, she wasn’t sure. All she remembered was leaving Killian’s bar with renewed vigor after their minor disagreement, not to mention the urge to shove his brother’s misdeeds in his smug, handsome face. That desire had led her to her office, a miniscule little thing with barely enough room for some filing cabinets, a desk, and a spinning chair. She had stormed off in in a huff, tossed her sopping coat on the nearest cabinet, and got to work yanking out everything she had on Jones before arranging herself in a most unladylike manner on the floor and organizing it all. But what had once been neat little piles of information now lay strewn chaotically around the room, looking like a sudden, focused tornado had ripped them apart. In truth it had been Emma, growing increasingly frustrated as she tried to force herself to  _ not think about Killian’s absurdly beautiful eyes, damn it,  _ who had ripped through her folders, reports, and photos, searching for some new or different piece of information or… hell, even a distracting piece of information, until she finally gave up and flopped onto the floor, her brain feeling like overcooked spaghetti, slimy, sticky and mushed together in a coagulated, starchy ball.

She lay there amongst her mess, fuming and occasionally grumbling to herself, as she reflected on the strange deference Killian seemed to have for his brother. It was like he had the man sitting on a pedestal and nothing anyone said or did would knock that pedestal over. And for some reason, the urge to take a jackhammer to the damn thing and watch it crumble to dust, forcing Killian to see what a wretch his brother truly was, had become overwhelming.

_ “It’s not fair!” _

Emma brought her hands up to her face as a loud groan escaped from her mouth. She was acting like a child, a jealous child who was angry because all the other kids still wanted to play with the mean boy who had pulled her pigtails. It was down right absurd. Killian didn’t mean a thing to her, he was a means to an end, that was all. She didn’t care about him personally and she damn sure didn’t care if he didn’t want to listen to her about his brother.

Her hands fell back to her sides as her aggravation and disappointment leaked out of her and onto the floor, and she swore she could almost see it, flowing sludge-like from her body. The absolute certainty that there was nothing she could do to show the truth to someone who didn’t want to see it took hold, weighing down her body like a ton of stone. There was nothing for it, no other course of action to be taken. She was alone on this case, she always would be, so it was up to her alone to figure out how to catch and stop Liam.

_ “And I can’t very well do that lying on the floor of my office, can I?” _

She sighed heavily and lifted herself up off the floor with immense effort, fighting the urge to continue lying there, wallowing in her own self pity. She made it as far as her desk chair before sitting bodily, nearly all of her normal spark and fight leached out. It was simply exhausting, trying to catch a murderer that had risen straight from her nightmares; even more so when she was the only one who seemed to want catch him. Sitting there, ruminating on the photographs and notes splayed before her, trying desperately to force her brain to think of a new plan that didn’t involve Killian, she felt that she was doing a rather good impression of an old, raggedy doll. It occurred to her, as she spun lightly in her chair, that the likelihood of getting anything involving the case accomplished that evening was impossibly slim. Her time would be better served sleeping, catching up on the rest she needed so she could start fresh the next day, body rejuvenated, mind sharp.

Decision made, she set about gathering up her loose papers into their proper folders; collecting mugs and scattered pens; hunting down her purse and pistol from their hiding spots under her desk. She was starting to feel better, more sane, more focused. It was as she was shoving her arms into her coat that the night decided to take another, rather unexpected, turn.

The buzzing ring of her office phone interrupted her falsely bright thoughts, the crackling voice on the other end returning her abruptly back down to Earth.

“Don’t give up on Killian.”

Her eyes widened marginally as she stared at the phone, feeling like she was gripping a stick of lit dynamite.

“Wh-who are you? How did you know…?” Her voice wasn’t nearly as strong as she wanted it to be, sounding more like a frightened whisper than a strong question. It made no difference; the only sound that answered her was a soft  _ click  _ as the other line disengaged, leaving Emma standing in her office, staring out her window at the dark midnight sky, running through every moment of her day, trying to ascertain who her new anonymous friend was and how exactly they knew she had nearly given up on Killian Jones.

  
  


*******

19 October 1945 - 1:34 am  
_ Castle Harbour _

 

The sound of glass connecting with wood echoed dully through the room as Killian slammed a bottle of his cheapest rum on the counter of his bar. His mood was foul, darkening the room around him, making him see shadows dancing on the walls, playing out sick puppet shows of his conversation with Liam.

 

_ “Hello, little brother.” Liam’s smile was wide as Killian walked into the room, looking almost more feral than friendly. His eyes were bright and cold, appraising, calculating, always assuming the worst. “It’s been a while.” His false smile fell when Killian didn’t respond, sliding slowly off his face like a thick, dark oil. _

 

Killian threw a shot of rum into his mouth, barely tasting it as it burned the lining of his throat. He slammed it back down, nearly cracking the glass, and poured more, paying little attention as the liquid sloshed over the sides and onto the bar.

 

_ “I take it you know about the tail you’ve had chasing you, then?” He leaned against the counter, arms and legs crossed, as defensive as his brother was offensive. Liam smirked, his mind wandering to the leggy, red lipped detective who’d been following him for months. It was a shame, really, a true pity, that a broad so delectable was working against him. Ah, the things he could do with her, if only she weren’t trying to arrest him. _

_ Killian’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, his brows arched so high they nearly reached his hair line. _

_ "Oops. Did I say that out loud?” The leer on Liam’s face was entirely animalistic, not a shred of humanity to be found in his features. _

 

Two more shots in. He couldn’t feel the burn anymore. Good. There was nothing stopping him.

 

_ Killian stood by the window looking down on the street below, refusing to meet Liam’s eyes. _

_ “Don’t worry about me, little brother. I can look after myself.” His voice sounded distant, as though it were traveling through a tunnel to reach Killian’s ears. He wished for a moment then that he were a bit stronger, a bit more willful, capable of uttering the words his mind was screaming. “I’m not worried about you.” _

 

The bottle was empty. Not good. Nearly half of it covered the counter, the other half having found its home in his roiling gut. He could still hear Liam, see him in the shadows, see Emma… He reached for another bottle, whiskey this time. A new burn. Good.

 

_ “I’ll take care of the broad. Or, rather, have her taken care of. I have other matters that need to be attended to by me personally. I can send Maxwell after her.” He said it so flippantly, so casually. What was one more body to him? Killian felt bumps rising over the surface of his skin, terror thrumming through him. _

_ "Taken care of?” _

_ He finally turned to look at Liam, immediately wishing he hadn’t. His face was hard, unflinching, uncaring. The look in his eyes negated the necessity of clarification. Detective Emma Swan would be dead within the week. _

 

The shadows still danced, worse now, his foggy, muddled brain projecting images onto the dark shapes, making them move. He saw Emma, smiling at him; Liam, a feral blood stained grin on his face, sharp eyes watching Emma; a knife, one that Emma couldn’t see; Liam...he was holding it, swinging it down..Emma didn’t know it was coming -

He threw the glass before his brain could register why. It shattered against the wall, remnants of whiskey and rum muddying the shadowed images, washing them away. His breathing was sharp, shallow, his eyes burned, and something cool was running down his heated cheeks. He didn’t know what, didn’t care. He did care that he no longer seemed able to focus on the bottle of whiskey sitting two inches before him. That was bad. Wasn’t it? He needed it, needed that whiskey, that alcohol. Craved the burn it would give, a strong burn, because it was the only thing that could trump his fear, replacing it with heat and strength and -

The bottle was empty within minutes, held loosely in Killian’s weak grip. He smiled, serene, finally at ease. He couldn’t see the images, couldn’t see his brother killing the intriguing woman who had literally kicked her way into his life, couldn’t see her lying bloody, bruised, and broken in an alley. He couldn’t think about anything, in truth; his vision was now entirely black.

He barely noticed when he fell onto his back, hitting the bar with his head on the way down. The strange, otherworldly vision now swimming before him distracted him from the pain blooming from his forehead. It was Emma, her hands wrapped around him, pulling him close in a warm embrace, her hands soft, her body perfectly molded against his own. Was it a memory? He didn’t think so. He would remember if she had pulled him in like that, would remember the smell of her floral perfume saturating his senses. No, not a memory. But maybe it could become one in the future? Maybe… if he… if he kept… kept her safe... 

The last thing his muddled mind saw before the blackness enveloped him was Emma, a sweet smile gracing her ruby lips, welcoming him, encouraging him to let go and embrace the ignorant bliss of a deep, medicated sleep.


End file.
